Close Enough
by Mastermind Sphinx
Summary: A Crawford x Schuldig moment taking place after episode 12 of Glühen, though Glühen knowledge isn't necessary to understand it. Spoilers, angst, and death all the good stuff .


I could hear the steel frame of the building creaking from the impact of the first bomb, preparing to fall, and it shall, I know. . . Berger's dead body lays a few yards away from me, face down in a pool of quickly congealing blood, the smell of the life fluid permeating throughout the air and stagnating in my nostrils. Half of it is quite likely mine, for I'm soaked in it, immobile with pain now that I have been freed of the green-haired clone's mental realm.

As much as I hate to admit weakness, I lack the strength to stand. . . And a part of me wonders that even were I capable, what would there be left to stand for in the first place? What reason do I have to even leave this building, other than for the satisfaction of rubbing it in the faces of SS that somehow I have managed to escape their grasp and survive once again? Like a Goddamn cockroach, adapting to whatever new breed of destruction the world decides to dish out. . . This would be a very pathetic way to die, though. In the end all ways truly are. There is little more glory in a battlefield death than there is in suicide or even slowly decaying into old age.

A part of me cannot imagine dying though, yet I cannot understand why. I know being a precognitive has inflated my ego, but has it gotten so bad that I no longer consider myself mortal? Have I really been fooling myself for so long that I can no longer see life for what it really is?

As a cough wracks throughout my body, coming out in a convulsive shudder, the hand used to cover my mouth is left bloody, and I can see my reflection in the crimson pool. . . Fading and weak. No, I'm aware of my mortality, though it's not something that I care much to think about. . . So what is it that is keeping me here? I honestly don't want to die. . .

"Crawford! . . . Crawford!" I hear his nasal voice echo through the vast and empty hall. A sound so usually filled with confidence and passion has melted into panic and fear.

I do not respond to my name, for he finds me soon enough, the shields around my mind a familiar cool sensation that acts as a beacon, tying our minds together.

"Jesus Crawford, come on!" Schuldig semi-shouts, obviously a little panicked. His jacket and hat are gone, leaving him in only that olive tank top, his arms and face are covered in black ash from that pyrokinetic, the smell of burnt hair clings to him, I'm sure that the damage to his vanity points were Geisel's demise more than anything else. . . I grin to myself, in the way that I know frustrates him to no end. The world is his joke book, and the fact that I keep my private jokes just that, must madden him.

I'm surprised by his lack of reaction, and when I shift my gaze up to see the look upon his face, I am immediately taken aback. Strong, smug Schuldig's face is locked in a pained grimace. "Crawford. . ." It's quiet this time and obviously laced with worry and just a hint of confusion. "Come on you dumb ass. . ."

"I can't," I reply dispassionately, as casually as if it were a habitual greeting.

"What do you mean you can't!" He practically shouts. . . He's been anxious over the vision that I had earlier this evening, as we surveyed the situation from the Epitaph roof. I had thought nothing of it, at the time. Apparently though, there was a little more cause for alarm than I had originally presumed. . . Foresight is so often blind.

Immediately he is kneeling down beside me. For the first time, or so it would seem, his mind is finally taking in the fact that the blood covering me does not belong to either Berger or to Weiß. The realization's impact is stronger than I would have imagined, and I know that he can feel the strong aura of death that is surrounding me now. Even were we to escape the building in time, I've lost a lot of blood. . .

"What do you mean you can't. . ." He repeats himself, anger when choked by a sob distorts the words. Quickly, Schuldig turns his head away from me, with tightly clenched teeth and even tighter clenched eyelids. . . I can tell that his shoulders are trembling, and I can tell that he is fighting the emotions he does not want to feel, for they flood into me and merge with my own.

With unaccustomed gentleness I reach a hand out to cup the side of his face, smearing it with blood, it's the one bodily fluid we've shared over the years, and too much of it to be healthy at that. New wet warmth is felt upon my skin, guilty tears. . . And the vulnerability and pain that I see there, that I have never seen before . . . They're an epiphany unto themselves. And for much more than a moment, I feel a thousand times more frustrated and motivated than I ever have. . . Yes I have my reasons to live Weiß. . .

Sliding my slick hand to his shoulder, I painfully struggle to upright myself, using Schuldig as a brace. Summoning strength that I did not know he possessed in that sinewy frame, the German manages to pull me up. We are standing together, perhaps physically weaker than we came, but in this moment I feel more alive than I can ever recall having felt. My weight is almost entirely supported by him, but without protest he still holds me as we stand . . . together.

I'm a selfish man. Some, like those in Weiß, would say that love is self-sacrificing, that one who truly loved would want the one they cared for to continue on and thrive, even in their absence. . . Hmph, well I say that _true_, brutally honest and **real** love is the one where you are selfish enough to be possessive, to wish for the one they care for to suffer. . . and to die, unnecessarily, alongside you. We're not a fucking Hallmark card, but dammit this feeling is real.

Our faces are buried deeply within the now saline soaked confines of one another's necks. I cannot recall the last time I shed a tear, but this seems like a fairly justified reason right now. Is the sky really the most clear before a storm? Why is it that all of the things that confused, challenged and pushed me in life are only now okay and lucid, moments before. Maybe I'm delerious. . .

"We'll finally be free after this, right Crawford?" I can feel his mouth move to pull a sad smile against my skin. Cynical and sarcastic, the one that I have come to love, right until the end. ". . .No more SS, no more of any of this shit. . . We'll be free?"

"Close enough," I managed to mumble, tightening my arms, longing for any warmth that I can grasp. It's so cold in here, even the heat of my blood as it spills down my back is starting to feel icy. . . I can hear the building start to come down in a mass cacophony of crashes and small explosions.

". . .Crawford." His voice is uncertain, perhaps afraid of my reaction, of what I will or will not say. Ridiculous telepath, still can't read the thoughts that are, and have been, loud and clear for so very long. ". . . I."

_I know_- I quietly project the words that I cannot seem to say. –_Me too_- I turn my head to brush my lips against his jaw in the ghost of a kiss. Both the first and the last, and one of goodbye all at once.

Weiß. . . You always said that you were fighting to protect the ones you cherish and love, that you live for them and would die for them. . . Our mockery of those idealistic delusions is hypocritical. Once again, Weiß, we have won, we beat you to it. Would you be jealous if you knew?. . .


End file.
